


Designer Babies, Deconstructed Salads & Domestic Bliss

by AudreyV



Series: Ten Points for Gellermore [1]
Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Happy Ending, Life Partners, Living Together, Post-Revival, Spoilers for A Year in the Life, pretty much married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 19:16:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8680189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AudreyV/pseuds/AudreyV
Summary: “You’re acting like you like the idea of us being a couple.”
Paris stared at Rory for a moment, then took a swig of her wine. She sat up straight and tented her hands in front of her. 
“Alright, Rory. This may not be the ideal place for a conversation about changing our life-circumstances, but it’s obvious you want to have it.”
--
Spoilers for A Year in the Life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So someone on Tumblr posted that it was sad that the Geller-Gilmores weren't the Geller-Gilmores in the revival, which made me think about how very kind canon was to Paris/Rory. It could have been SO much worse. Instead, we got a universe where, a year later, Paris and Rory could be living together in NYC. 
> 
> Also, no one can tell me that Paris's "I missed my last period" line wasn't setting up an abandoned pregnancy storyline for her. 
> 
> This is SO different from my usual heavy, heartbreaking or smutty writing, but Paris Geller demanded some attention. And then she demanded babies. And then she demanded a happy ending. And everybody knows that what Paris Geller wants, Paris Geller gets.

“Oh, what a gorgeous baby!”

Rory looked up from her phone and smiled at the elegant older woman who was looking down at her daughter. 

“Thank you.”

“How old is she?”

“Almost three months.” 

“Be precise, Rory!” Paris settled herself in the seat across from Rory and turned to the woman. “She’s two months and twenty three days old.”

“Well, I suppose it’s important to be accurate,” the woman said with a chuckle. She smiled down at the baby again, then glanced between Paris and Rory. “It’s remarkable how much she looks like both of you.”

“Excuse me?” Rory asked.

“If I didn’t know better I’d swear she was one of those designer babies. A little bit of you, a little bit of you.” 

Rory glanced at Paris in confusion, just in time to see her friend’s jaw set and her gaze narrow. She braced herself for the torrent Paris was about to unleash on the old woman, which would no doubt include Paris’s personal and professional thoughts on the phrase ‘designer babies’. 

“Barbara!” 

Both Paris and Rory turned toward the voice, which belonged to a second impeccably dressed older woman, who was waving at the first.

“Coming!” The first woman— Barbara— called back. “It was lovely talking to you girls,” she said as she bustled toward the door to the restaurant. Rory watched her go, then turned back to Paris. 

“Did she…”

“Assume you and I would be so shallow as to genetically engineer the perfect offspring using both of our eggs?” Paris huffed and glared in the direction the woman had gone. “Yes, in fact she did. The nerve of some people.”

“Aren’t designer babies a big part of your business, Paris?”

“Of course they are, but no one calls them that. That ill-informed biddy. Anybody who knows anything knows we’re at least five years away from a viable two-ova no-sperm embryo.” Paris waved an approaching waitress off. 

“We should probably order—“

“She can wait. I haven’t even looked at the menu.” Paris flipped through it violently. “Ugh. ‘Deconstructed Oyster Rockefeller.’ What, they bought all the ingredients but can’t be fucked to actually assemble them into something meaningful?”

“It doesn’t bother you that that woman thought we were lesbians together?” Rory asked.

“No.” Paris tossed the menu back down on the table. “I’m having the pesto pasta, as constructed as they can make it. You?”

“The roast chicken with baby potatoes. Paris, she thought you and I were a couple.”

“Yes, Rory, since that woman thought you and I cooked up drooling little Emily there, I assume she also thinks we engage in a variety of stereotypical homosexual activities including hiking, recreational viewing of sporting events and lesbian sex.” Paris dabbed at the baby’s mouth with her napkin, then waved the waitress over. “Pesto pasta, roast chicken, glass of your finest red, coffee,” she said, gesturing to Rory. “And a fresh napkin. Thanks.”

“It just seems like such an irrational assumption to make,” Rory mused. 

“This bothers you exponentially more than it bothers me. Why?” Paris asked.

“It’s just presumptuous and inaccurate,” Rory replied. “Why doesn’t it bother you?”

“Because for all intents and purposes, you and I are a couple.”

“Excuse me?”

“We live together, with our assorted offspring. You’re the first person I tell when anything important happens. Our phones are on a family plan.” Paris ticked off reasons on her fingers. “Everyone refers to Emily and Jillian as “the twins” even though Jillian came out of my vagina three months before Emily came out of yours. During the week I go to my very important job and you manage the nanny and make sure dinner is waiting for me when I get home. On the weekends you, I, the nanny and the assorted offspring enjoy activities like going to the park or the zoo. Which is to say that you, the nanny and the offspring enjoy it while I try to ignore the fact that the great outdoors gives me hives.” She shrugged. “It’s all actually quite heteronormative.”

“Paris, I’m not your housewife. I don’t cook—“

“Arranging delivery is the new cooking.”

“I don’t clean.”

“We have a maid.”

“And I’m only on your family plan because you got tired of me complaining that my phone didn’t get reception in my writing room!”

“Yes. Your writing room. In the house you share with me.” Paris smiled brightly. “Face it, Gilmore. In seven states we’d already be common-law spouses.”

“You’re acting like you like the idea of us being a couple.”

Paris stared at Rory for a moment, then took a swig of her wine. She sat up straight and tented her hands in front of her. 

“Alright, Rory. This may not be the ideal place for a conversation about changing our life-circumstances, but it’s obvious you want to have it.”

“I didn’t say—“ Rory tried to interject but Paris continued over her.

“You and Doyle are the only people I've ever tolerated for any length of time and he's decided to trade mind-blowing sex with me for brainless sycophants, tasteless gluten-free desserts and a weekly anal-bleaching appointment,” Paris grumbled. “Granted, the psychology of human sexual behavior is slightly outside of my particular realm of expertise, but I can tell you an estimated eleven percent of straight women between the ages of 18 and 50 have had sexual intercourse with another woman, so you wouldn't even need to shave your head or buy a rainbow tutu for the next Pride parade.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Rory mumbled.

“Although if anyone could pull off a rainbow tutu and a shaved head with class and sex appeal, it would be you.” The corners of Paris’s mouth turned up for a moment before she went on. “So, logistics. I prefer to sleep alone so you would keep your room. I know Gabriela and Timoteo have been calling both you and the nanny "mommy" behind my back for months, so the only things that would actually change are your tax bracket and your levels of sexual satisfaction. What do you think?”

“Did you just offer to have sex with me?” Rory asked. 

“Yes. And let me assure you, the female reproductive system may be my business, but I’m also a VERY serious vaginal hobbyist as well. Oh, could you eavesdrop a little harder, Becky?” Paris hissed at the woman at the next table who was listening intently to her monologue. “It’s a good deal I’m offering her, though, no?” 

“Uh… sounds pretty ideal,” the woman agreed. 

“Great. Now go back to your deconstructed salad, which is actually just cheap iceberg lettuce with oil and vinegar on the side that you’re paying $17 for.” Paris turned back to Rory and extended her hands across the table. After a moment of thought, Rory took them. 

“The truth is, Rory, I’m not a big believer in amorphous things like love, but I cannot deny that I like having you in my life and in my home. I suspect that after years of rising sexual tension, I would greatly enjoy having you in my bed as well. You are the most important person in my life. In the hopelessly cliche words of Shonda Rhimes, you’re my person.” Paris swallowed hard and in the momentary pause in the flood of words, Rory realized Paris’s hands were shaking. “When that woman assumed that Emily was ours, as in yours and mine, it didn’t bother me. It made me happy.”

Rory nodded dumbly.

“This is a lot to take in, Paris,” she said quietly. “I haven’t really thought of you like that before.”

“Mmm. Inaccurate.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not blind, Rory. I see how flustered you get when I try to have a conversation with you when I’m just out of the shower and wearing only a towel. And that stranger’s assumption that we were a couple seriously affected you and since I know you’re not homophobic, the only logical explanation is that Barbara the biddy was a little too on the mark.” Paris fluttered her eyelashes at Rory and squeezed her hands. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Rory opened her mouth to tell Paris that, no, she was completely wrong, but something stopped her. She considered the puzzle pieces that were coming together in her brain. 

How elated she was when Paris showed up in Stars Hollow and said, “You deserve better than to waste your talents in this charming but ultimately hopelessly antiquated town. You can edit the damn Gazette remotely. I can get you an appointment with the best damn OB-GYN in all of New York City with one phone call. Granted, he doesn’t accept payment in bushels of apples or wagons of firewood, but I think we can manage. And if I haven’t convinced you yet, remember that your best friend is newly divorced, pregnant and living in a ridiculously large house all by herself and would really appreciate the company.”

“You live there with two kids and a nanny.”

“Details, details,” Paris replied with a smile. It faded as she shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. “I know it’s not a white horse, but… please get in the car.” 

How natural it felt the first time she fell asleep in Paris’s bed while they watched Frozen with Timoteo and Gabriela for the 75th time. She half-woke-up to Paris was wrapping a blanket around them, and thought she should get up and go to her room, but she didn’t. When she woke up the next morning, her front pressed tight to Paris’s back, Rory spent ten minutes watching the snow fall and feeling Paris’s baby kicking under her hands.

How they’d lived together for almost a year now and their daily lives were completely intertwined. Rory flashed on her grandmother’s most recent visit to her namesake, and how happy she felt seeing elegant Emily Gilmore without a hand free for her scotch because she had little Emily in one arm and Jillian in the other. How Paris didn’t hesitate a moment before writing a check to secure the third outpost of the Dragonfly Inn. How at the 4th of July fireworks Luke carried a giggling Gabriela around on his shoulders and didn’t correct one of the out-of-towners when she said, “Wow, someone really loves her Grandpa!”

The last puzzle piece clicked into place for Rory when she closed her eyes and remembered Paris in the towel, ranting about a couple who wanted a fourth batch of surrogate options. Except Rory wasn’t quite following what she was saying because she couldn’t stop staring at the water droplets clinging to Paris’s collarbone. 

Rory blinked back to the present, where Paris was looking at her expectantly. She looked over at Emily, then back to Paris, then down to where their hands were still clasped together. 

“She does look like you,” Rory said finally. 

“What?”

“Emily looks like you. And me, obviously, which is less of a surprise but if we did smash our DNA together, she’s pretty much what we’d get.” 

“That’s just because all rich WASP families in New England look the same. The Huntzbergers probably trace their line back to the same colonial asshole on the Santa Maria that the Gellers do. I should have my genealogist track that down,” Paris mused. “Do you want another coffee? As a doctor, I can’t condone caffeine while breastfeeding, but as a human being and someone who has to live with you, I—“

“You’re not wrong.” Rory looked Paris in the eye and nodded once. Paris stared at her for a moment before smiling broadly. 

“Good. So it’s settled. I'd come over there and kiss you but you have regurgitated breast milk on your shirt and this jacket cost more than your sensible mid-sized family car,” Paris quipped. “Which I will have my assistant trade in for something more befitting your new station in life. Now, I know that portmanteaus are extremely popular for LGBTQIA+ families but 'Gellermore' sounds like a long-lost Harry Potter house, so we'll either have to hyphenate like Our Lady Rodham-Clinton or we can all be Gellers. I prefer the second option because it would cause my mother to have at least three holiday meltdowns before she admits that you've always been my family, but ultimately I'll leave that decision up to you.”

“Um… well, I will definitely think about that,” Rory replied.

“Let me know what you come up with. Oh shit,” Paris said. “If my damn pasta doesn’t come out in the next ninety seconds, I’m going to be late for my interview with Vogue. And you know those idiots are going to be completely awkward when they dress me for the photo spread. Whatever they’ve pulled for me to wear is going to show my nipples, so they'll have Kelsi or Emmaleigh or Steffi the most expendable assistant try to “talk me into it” by apologizing profusely. They assume for some ungodly reason that I’m ashamed of my nipples, when in fact I’m as happy to splash them across the pages of any glossy magazine (sans Cosmo) as I am to show off the antique cloisonné vase I just bought at auction. Especially considering the cost of eliminating all minute variation between the left and the right cost twice what I paid for the vase. So I say, 'yes, 21-year-old-assistant-with-the-creatively-spelled-moniker, I do think visible areoles are very 2017!’” 

Paris noticed the eavesdropper from the next table frozen with a spoonful of soup suspended halfway to her mouth. 

“If you’re so fascinated, it’ll be in the January issue,” she snapped. “Or, if you’d prefer, I can take you into the ladies room and give you a peek at the girls right now. No? Then eyes on your soup, Nosy Nellie.”

Rory hid a smile as the woman sheepishly followed Paris’s order, dropping her gaze to her half-empty bowl of split-pea soup. 

“So I have the interview, then the shoot, then I have a late consult at the office, so I’ll be home around eight. Sound good?” Paris asked, as if the entire landscape of their relationship hadn’t shifted radically in the past ten minutes. 

But, given the way she was smiling at Rory, perhaps for her it hadn’t. Maybe Paris figured it out a long time ago.

“Sounds good,” Rory agreed.


End file.
